


Kagome Kagome ---  カゴメ。かごめ。

by Missilepen (TheycallmeVintinneOWO), TheycallmeVintinneOWO



Category: Death Note
Genre: Abuse, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Anxiety, Asperger Syndrome, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bullying, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Incest, Multi, Orphans, Other, Panic Attacks, Sadism, Self Harm, Smoking, Suicide, Underage Sex, Violence, Wammy's Era, daisy crowns, dubcon, iknowishouldbewritinginbetweentheeyesineedtofindmymuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheycallmeVintinneOWO/pseuds/Missilepen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheycallmeVintinneOWO/pseuds/TheycallmeVintinneOWO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wammy's has history. Some good. Mostly bad.</p><p>Kagome, kagome, nigerarenu you ni…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prototypes

**Author's Note:**

> this kinda goes along with in between the eyes, but not exactly. You don't have to read it to understand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The founding of a new era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hello! I'm gonna be writing chappies in advance, hoping for 2-4k each time, but we shall see!

When Wammy had first found L, he didn't take him for his intellect. He took him because he took pity on the nearly naked, dirty, crouching, 4 year old boy asking for money on the side of a road in France. He had asked him questions, gave him clothes and took him out for lunch.

Quillsh was by no means a very rich man, but he had enough money to found a small orphanage based in England with a fond friend Roger Ruvie (who actually didn't really like children, but he did like Wammy too terribly much.)

Recalling the small, underfed child he had met on the streets in the rather grubby side of Paris, a few months later he decided to call the husband and wife whom Quillsh had asked to care for the nameless boy. His calls went unanswered quite a few times until a french-speaking man called, informing him his old friends were dead.

Both were murdered in their small apartment, and the boy had enough sense to hide from the contrarily sensless murderer before he was seen. Wammy immediatly escorted him back to Winchester and settled him down in the 'orphanage,' both coming to a solemn agreement about his stay.

He called him Lawliet.

And he began his career as the world's greatest detective.

 

___________________________________

Three years later, both Lawliet and Quillsh decide the delicate position of L was not to be threatened. So they chose successors.

Andrew Crief Moore, a frighteningly intelligent young boy was orphaned and Wammy's snapped him up a year later.

Nyet Kjelling, a brilliant, mostly mute child was transferred to Wammy's after six years in the foster system. Both of them were eight.

L called them A and B. A for alpha. B for beta. A for alternative. B for backup.

B came not knowing English, and without the use of his left hand from an incident years ago. A came twitchily, with a long history of sexual abuse and not many things to say. They were put in a room together and expected to excell in their studies.

And yet somehow they did so much more than that.

When A was first shown his room, he did not expect to see another boy his age, yet much smaller, staring at him with narrowed, empty eyes behind dirty black hair that hung to his elbows.

B didn't think much of the brown haired boy hiding behind large glasses (who was supposedly smarter than him.) A was rather frightened by B, who had a tendency to stare for long amounts of time without blinking.

"Parlez-vous Anglais?"(1) He asked B nervously if he knew English. B shook his head.

"Non. Russe. Et tu?" He didn't really care anyways.  
"Anglais, Francais, Deutsch. Pas de Russe." He replied, fidgeting as he began unpacking his few belongings, B's eyes never leaving him.

B's face was sharp, and he was malnourished and dirty, dressed in simple clothes. A black beaded necklace with a pedant sun hung from his thin, long neck. He was playing with his hair, his left hand looking rather deformed.

A was mousey, and had ear length, curly brown-blond hair that looked like a line of dust had settled across it. His dim blue eyes were constantly shifting from B and the task at hand. He was small, but bigger than B, and wore a large, grey sweater. B felt like if A wasn't moving he would disappear.

Eventually, A left to wander the halls of the old, solemn yet grand building that smelled of newspapers, books, and old closets. The floorboards creaked and the walls were yellow with age, and the place had a dim, yet clear feel to it.

A felt very small.

Curiously, he opened the door to a yellow, shuttered room filled with boxes and empty, dusty shelves. Stepping in quietly, he opened on of the boxes. Books. Old, papery-smelling, delicate books.

He wondered how to sort them.

He decided to sort by subject, and in each subject in alphabetical order. Plucking a thick, brown book out of a box with elegant, long fingers, He started with the F's, and began sorting the books onto the shelves.

Gradually, he grew more comfortable, and relaxed in the calming environment of the beautiful building. And relaxing was not a thing A did very easily these days. Birds chirped outside in the late evening, combined with a fuzzy chorus of crickets and frogs.

Here, at last, A felt safe.

 

Meanwhile, B had taken a completely opposite direction and went down the stairs they had come up from to their rooms, landing in the foyer of the orphanage where a desk sat (unused,) as well as some old plastic house plants in the corners. 

Beautiful stained glass filled the high ceiling in a globe-like arch, and tinted light danced across the wooden floors. A door with a foggy window led to Roger's office. B stared at the ancient portraits on the wall, and was startled from his reverie from a soft, distant noise.

Piano playing. 

B stared in the direction it was coming from; an arching doorway on the left side of the foyer. It led into a living area sprinkled with couches, armchairs, small tables, and an unpacked TV in the corner. The shades were drawn, and yellow light filtered weakly through.

Tenatively, he followed the noise, his bare feet shuffling akwardly on the wooden floor, glancing at everything, pulling at the edges of his sleeves quietly. The music grew louder at a door where B stopped, listening to the sad yet pleasant song.

Hesitating even more so, he placed a hand on the golden knob and opened the door slowly. The song kept playing, and B felt encouraged, slipping in in complete silence. He was greeted with the sight of a piano, and a small boy with hair not unlike his own perched on the bench.

He was staring at the boy's back, and felt himself calming into the music. Abruptly, the music stopped, B's eyes shot open, and the boy turned to stare at him with enormous, dark eyes that rested on a hauntingly beautiful face.

"B." The monosyllable was quiet but it seemed loud and large in the quiet of the music room. B tilted his head, staring at the red figures above his head.

L L A W L I E T  
0 6 5 8 4 8 9 0 6 0

He stared at the letters for quite some time. This was L. The L. Invisible, all knowing, omnicient L. B was quiet at first. Then he looked at L himself. It was startling how much they were alike.

"Privet, L." B cracked a dry-lipped grin. This was interesting. Very interesting. Feeling bold, he took a step further, and L only twitched a bit.

He took in the likeness. The differences. His shorter, softer hair. His larger, lighter eyes, his small, bony frame, his less pronounced jaw. L continued to stare, his pretty eyes wide as he shrunk back into his crouch. B took a few more steps, and he could hear the detective's almost silent breathing.

Reaching over L's shoulder, he plunked out the finishing notes delicately. He could practically feel the boy's discomfort.

"Kogda vy zakonchite upakovku, Rodzher khochet tebya videt." He spoke quietly, his voice robotic and trained. B was disappointed, but he decided he could always find this pretty, intruiging creature again.

B shrugged, turning and walking away slowly. For the remainder of his long, bored walk to Roger's office, he heard no music. Just the quiet thuds of his feet up and down the narrow halls.

Roger was hesitant about this dangerous business venture. He had planned in his youth to save for a retirment fund, to perhaps live in the countryside with Quillsh for the remainder of his peaceful, secluded life and then die of old age or something.

What he had not planned was sitting in front of two very underfed, intelligent, disturbing young children who he had just told of their fate to succeed L. He regarded the two silently with care. A seemed confused. B seemed to have a small spark of... rage? Jealousy? behind his eyes.

Roger tried to play out the hard truth delicately and to put it as a fun, friendly competition. A didn't look like he was having fun, and there was no way B could act friendly. Roger dejectedly dismissed them to the classroom for further testing by Quillsh.

A was practically shaking. L? The L? What was this? Was this a sick joke, him pitted up against this scary, raven haired boy who seemed upset with his title of second place? Was it a prank? It couldn't be. He felt his heart racing as all of these thoughts danced around his head madly, and he tried holding his breath to keep from hyperventilating. Now was no time for panic attacks. He was expected to have a clear, focussed mind. Which was exactly the opposite of his current state.

B was trembling too, but not from anxiety and fear. His was pure rage.

Second? He was second to this, this small, weak, stupid little mouse? No. No. No. If he deserved this then he deserved more than being second to a small, weak-minded child. He didn't even know if surpassing A was an option. It had to be. He had to become more than him.

Quillsh gave them both a pencil and a clipboard full of questions, told them to sit anywhere they liked, and set up a timer. A shakily wrote the answers to the first three questions, and then, calming himself slightly in the atmosphere of a test (one where he usually thrived,) and continued on.

B twitched before starting to write, the very tip of his pencil lead breaking off as he dragged the letters across the paper. This was simple. He could do this. He could surpass A.

By the time Quillsh left the room, both were nearly a third of the way done. They had been told to expect many of these timed, hard tests.

L was hesitant when deciding to have successors. It had originally been Wammy's idea, and the thought of entrusting his legacy to two mentally shaky, brilliant young orphans was not his version of a very good idea. 

Not to even mention when B had seen him-- and knew who he was. This random, small child knew who he was and it concerned L. He tried to think of it as Wammy telling him what he looked like, but that was unlikely.

A form of wariness and trust carefully woven together was the thing that kept Wammy's from falling apart as B and A progressed.

After weeks of B and A keeping to themselves, learning, being tested, taking tests, tests, and more tests, things started to pick up in pace. B's left hand's nerves had almost all been severed, and the extra finger he was born with had been cut messily off. 

Wammy had offered to pay for surgery and physical therapy, because as skilled as one can be with only one hand, a two handed L would be better. While that was occurring, B also began to talk more, having learned English basics in less than two weeks, language being one of his favorite subjects.

While B and A mostly avoided each other, they were roommates, so they reluctantly went through whatever could be called 'polite' interactions. B grew somewhat spiteful towards A, and A was nervous around B. 

And so, a vicious circle between them began.

B acted generally aloof or aggressive. Sometimes both. A didn't deal with those kinds of people very well. They made him nervous. Whenever A reacted, B saw him as a cowardly asshat. And therefore he was even more nervous, and the circumstances pushed at each other, slowly making both of them crumble to a shaky, raw state when around each other.

 

_______________________________________________

B was pissed. Well, he was usually pissed at something, but this time he was nearly furious. He cursed Roger in his head as he dragged a stumbling A back slowly to Wammy's from the thicket nearby. He glanced at the nearly disappeared sun and scowled. He had better things to do than retrieve this drenched, dirty, blond mutt.

Like studying. Or searching for that pretty bird called L. Or avoiding Roger. Or burning A's boring books discreetly. Or...

A grunted, interrupting B's thoughts.

"What?" B snapped, not even bother to try and speak without his accent, as he did when learning most languages. 

"My... My ankle. I think it's broken." A croaked, staying off of said ankle as much as possible, therefore leaning more into B; which neither of them really liked. B glanced down at the twisted joint and pulled a face. 

"You're fine. You just sprained it. I broke my ankle before and it was bad. Looked nothing like that. It feels like it hurts more than it does." Everything was a lie. A would be wearing a cast for weeks all because he tried running away.

Stupid kid. B considered it. Then unconsidered it. Whatever this was, it was better than the foster system. Even if it meant dragging this dipshit back with him.

Swinging the door open, B yelled for Wammy, ignoring any of Roger's preferences for quiet at these hours. A sat on the chair by the desk. In a few minutes, Wammy appeared down the staircase, frowning.

"Are you alright?" He asked in concern. A tried desperately not to roll his eyes, he really did. He shoved his awkward ankle out at Wammy, and the greying gentleman examined it for a few seconds before telling A he was taking him to the Emergency room immediately, and for B to go to his room and study.

And so that is what they did.

B sat on his bed, staring at the top bunk. It had almost been a year now. There wasn't much of a Christmas, or new years for that matter, as much as Quillsh tried to make the conditions bearable.

A told him new children were coming to the orphanage. New children? What the hell did that mean? Was B not good enough? A told him they were probably so the orphanage didn't seem suspicious. To hell with that, L wasn't stupid. He wouldn't let just anyone into his house.

Something was going on. B didn't like it. A's fear was slipping away. The tests became farther apart. B hadn't seen L since the piano incident. He was getting agitated, and started to take it out on A.

Things were too quiet for it to be real.

Several months later, Roger left the orphanage on 'business', and returned with 6 orphans. Victor, Deanna, Salle, Fahra, a child only known as 'G,' and Florence. The had all been tested and ranked accordingly.

B was devastated, even though Wammy told them they were to give a better look on the orphanage, and to serve as understudies of sorts for A and B. Victor, Deanna and Salle were respectively the most intelligent out of the six. Victor, ten, Deanna 11, Salle only 7.

They all had appropriately desolate looks on their faces for the situation. These children would be the first out of many arrivals, but the only ones to know of their fates of successors. I mean, they were really the only ones with that great of a chance.

Testing and lessons remained vigorous, constantly straining the children's brains.Most of the new kids did well under the pressure, but Florence had anxiety, and Victor grew nigh intolerable during stress, but otherwise functioned perfectly.

Fahra, at twelve years old proved to be nearly flawless in her execution during tests, and was quick to learn, and slowly relaxed more with the orphanage, her tongue relaxing as well. She was a source of humor and dry irony in the manor.

G was 5, a small jamaican girl who was born deformed and weak, quiet, but incredibly intelligent.

Salle was an abandoned, wary child with pock marks littering his face and a rather unattractive scar runing across his nose. While stubborn, and disliking the concept of the orphanage, his grades were incredible, and he could easily pass Deanna and perhaps even Victor if he ever decided to have some motivation. He was like a loaded gun with the saftey on.

Suffice it to say, B did not get on with the new successors very well. Victor and Fahra aggravated him more than anyone else (besides A, of course,) although Victor often tried to annoy B on purpose. In doing so, he received a few scratch scars from B's sharp nails.

A was terrified of the prospect of being replaced-- He had found solace in the calm (ish) routine of him taking test after test with averagely skyrocketing results, and B biting at his heels. This change was startling, and sparked his anxiety up again.

While A and B were furiously thinking about this new development, Fahra was wandering the numerous halls of the mansion, humming as she looked for where her room was supposed to be.

'Successor, huh? Well there goes my plans for being a fruit vendor in Venice somewhere after dropping out of highschool.' She thought after sighing dramatically. At least the food was good. At the moment, she was just glad to be at a system where you actually got a room, roomate or not.

Swinging open a door at random (well, not really random, she had heard something--) she was greeted with the sight of a girl's back, and her bushy, frizzy brown mane in all of it's glory. The girl turned around, and Fahra was greeted with large, brown doe eyes in a shade similar to the girl's hair.

"Hiya. You Deanna?" Fahra asked cheerfully before pushing her large, dark framed glass up her nose and adjusting her hijab. The girl only nodded, placing the pile of clothes she had in her arms into the bottom drawer of a dresser.

"You get the top drawers." She said quietly, placing the shirts neatly side by side, dark brown fingers smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Cool." Fahra shrugged. Since the girl didn't seem in a talkative mood, she decided not to talk either. See? Fahra had great social skills. Amazing.

After finishing, she flopped on the unoccupied twin bed. "So." She staryed suddenly, glancing over at Deanna. "20 questions? Never have I ever? 'What's your name age and favorite ice cream?'" Deanna merely rose a brow.

"Aw cmon, we gotta know each other somehow." Fahra groaned. "I'm probably gonna be stuck with you for the rest of my childhood. Might as well not hate each other."

"I'm eleven." She said simply, taking out a large stack of books from her bag, of which were mostly poetry and series, like the Lord of the Rings. All Fahra had brought for entertainment was her gameboy, a wooden linking puzzle device, and, unbeknownst to Roger, her small, prematurely born kitten that was currently in a small brown box under her bed.

It was not as discreet as Fahra, and had begun to mewl from hunger. Deanna's sharp brown eyes darted to the source and Fahra giggled, patting her stomach.  
"Boy, am I hungry!"

It was a bad lie and they both knew it. Fahra kicked herself for that onee; She prided herself on her ability to lie.

"I don't remember anything that just happened." Deanna said slowly. There was no way she would get into that fiasco with Roger. She was going to behave. Respect and be respected, as she had learned worked better at getting parents then setting fire to a child who had called her a whore.

Except she would probably never be leaving this orphanage.

Salle and Victor were roomates and Victor had yet to find something that would piss off the smaller boy, and that was pissing him off. He didn't like people who thought they were too good for others. 

Victor knew it was a bad idea, but he decided to stoop even lower, commenting on the deep pits in the boy's face. "So, did your mom go after you with a cheese grater or somethin'?"

"No. She died of cowpox after I had contracted it." He said simply, not missing a beat.

Well damn, Victor thought. Now I feel like shit.

He ran his fingers through his dark purple hair over and over again, itching to do something. He watched Salle take out a small pocketknife and begin to carve into a small chunk of wood.

Well. Victor Cree was offici-fuckingly bored.

He pranced out the door, leaving his small basket of clothes and meds untouched under his bed. He didn't quite feel like unpacking quite yet. Hell, he hardly even felt safe yet. He didn't like this whole world's greatest successors or whatever business.

Seriously, orphans? Sounded pretty messed up. Maybe Wammy was an alien, and this huge estate his secret ship that once full, would whisk them away to probed or dissected or whatever. 

Or so Victor wished. He'd been in an orphanage once before this, and he hated every damn second of it. He tried running back to the streets, but was quickly caught and dragged back. At least this orphanage felt less prison-like. And yet, at the same time, there was this foreboding sensd of finality that Vic thought he would never be leaving this grand place with a mood that seemed to demand respect given to gods.

Frankly, It kinda scared Vic. The halls were all yellowed and dim, every door closed and uninviting, as if he was a strange intruder looking to steal or break something. In a sense, Victor thought, he was. He didn't want to be the World's Greatest Detective. He just wanted some money, maybe a place to sleep. A normal life.

Not this.

Heading down the staircase that lead to the foyer, he walked to the living room, where a tall, fairly thin boy- or girl?- stood hunched over the TV, muttering things to themself. At the sound of Victor's footsteps, the person quickly whirled around, wiring in hand and grey eyes wide.

A looming, distrusting looking boy with scarlet lips parted slightly as if to snap at Vic for even daring to come near him. Vic smiled and waved.

"Need some help?" The boy shook his head silently, turning back around to mess with the wires. The damn TV that hadn't been used since A and B arrived here, and now Roger wanted it set up? He swore to himself that he would take longer than he had planned in his murderous daydreams to be fufilled.

Vic shrugged, flopping on one of the three large plush sofas to watch the dark haired charcter struggle and curse under his breath until finally, the TV glowed dimly, it's logo flashing to life on the screen. Victor clapped lazily.

"Go for it kid." B stalked off into the kitchen, and Vic scrunched his eyebrows. Was he trying to be nice? Vic shrugged it off as the boy probably being hungry after that obviously brutally long battle with the TV. It had turned on to a cooking show, and then Victor realized he had no remote.

And so he sat uncomfortably on the overstuffed orange couch watching Chrissa Dean make pineapple tarts for nearly half an hour.  
Suddenly, he decided perhaps being a 'successor' would be a lot more boring than he thought. Oh, was he wrong.

After the jumpcut to when the tart was done, a loud, thundering set of footsteps came rambling down the stairs, and Fahra was there in all of her gameboy glory, her game forgotten as she took a glance at the TV, then swore, her hopeful expression gone. 

"It's been two years since I've watched TV, let alone something I like, and Martha Stewart is on?" She cried in despair, moving the wrapping and TV box to snatch the remote to flick it onto Animal Planet.

Victor narrowed his eyes. "Okay, first of all, her name is Chrissie Bean, and she was nearly done with the lemon tart, and I was here first!" Soon enough, the argument escalated into a full on debate about remote and state of watching rights. During said argument, B had finally emerged from the kitchen, thoroughly pissed that these kids were yelling and that they were all out of jam.

This is why he avoided general society.

He decided to go bug A when he stumbled past Deanna and frowned, glancing at the figures above her head.

D A N Y A LIOSE  
8 4 3 0 8 2 0 7

She didn't have long. B filed the information in the back of his mind for later.

So that was B. Deanna mused, glancing past at him for a split second before continuing on her way. He was strange, and his very presence seemed to threaten her. Deanna didn't like threats, and didn't take them lightly. 

In the living room, Victor had settled to a sulk on the ugly overstuffed couch, and Fahra was smugly sitting in an armchair with the remote snuggled against her chest as she watched in fascination as snails mated. Lovely.

The orphanage wasn't ordinary in not just it's purpose, but in it's design. Instead of a cafeteria, there was a large, cozy kitchen and a dining room with two very long tables, and stained glass shining on the wall. It felt more like a home than a system, imposing as it may have been; and while the children were not family, most of them would treat them as such.

While the children appeared is if they would from now on live a happy and sheltered life, that was far from the truth. No one actually ever got adopted. Many of the intelligent children suffered from mental illnesses and disorders, and nearly all of them had come worse places.

In that sense, Wammy's was home. While they all had problems, they all had problems together. Hakuna Mata. Ohana llama. Sunshine and rainbows.

Something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A asked if B knew English, and B said no, Russian. A said he knew english, french, and German. They were speaking in french.
> 
> 2.  
> B: "Hello L."  
> L: "If you've finished packing, Roger wants to see you.."  
> They were speaking in Russian.
> 
> Also holy crap! new story! ok i know IBTE was on hiatus then off, but right now, I'm currently going through stuff that I can't deal with writing the next plot bunny for it, and so I decided to try something broader and a biit happier (lmao all my tags are so depressing, but tags are like the trigger warning area for me)
> 
> So um yes happy reading :)
> 
> ~ Lazy ass 'Author.'
> 
> PS: I can kind of see how I evolve in my style, but I'm curious to see what you guys think of it, what can be improved, what you like, etc. etc. Also I started piano lessons! And two new animes, Noragami and Silver Spoon!!! （ ≧▽≦)/


	2. Lilacs or lilies?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer arrives to Wammy's.

After a long streak of cold, sloshy, rainy days, the sun had finally come out of it's little hole and beat down mercilessly upon the roof of the orphanage, drawing everyone outside like ants to a honey pot.

After a long week and a half of being stuffed in a rather stale smelling orphanage with frighteningly loud and boisterous people, Florence was ready to go outside, maybe walk around the building some, or even just open her windows as she studied. This, however, would not be the case.

There was a small payground which sat unoccupied and lonely looking until Victor ran out racing to the swings as Fahra followed quickly behind, G trailing after them listlessly.

Florence wondered why G never spoke. Well, she didn't speak muxh herself, but that was merely because of the incorridgible stutter that dragged her down like dark, heavy mud.

Mud. That make sense. Florence had a mud tongue. Her aunt was always telling her that if you stuttered and stumbled over your words like Florence did often, you probably abused your words by twisting the or using them against someone; but Florence didn't recall any such event that would mangle her speech so.

In her speechless years, Florence had managed to learn three different sign languages, how to write five diffirent languages, and braille. If the devil mucked about her tongue, was that her forgiveness?

Perhaps G had said something so horrid her speech simply left her. At least, that's what Florence's aunt would say, but Florence's aunt was the kind of relative to make you eat soap if you spoke in what she considered an 'ill' manner.

All in all, Forence decided not to trust her aunt but still not approach G. Perhaps the child wouldn't even like her. There. She wouldn't be surprised. She was used to people disliking her, even ignoring her.

Perhaps she was simply a ghost. Perhaps--

Suddenly all of Florence's perhapses and ghosts were interrupted by the swing of the porch door, just inches away from where she was sitting cross leged on the wooden deck. She glanced up, and realized it was Salle. If he was rank four or five, Florence couldn't remember, or even care.

All she saw was him letting loose a small smile that spread across his pock marked face and his small, greyish hand lowering as if waiting to take hold of hers.

"Would you like to go for a walk, Miss Florence?'

The request was rather simple in itself, but Florence was rather surprised he had even noticed her, much less talk to her. The only thing she could muster up was a slight nod, and then took his hand as she stood.

"Th-thanks." She managed, dusting off her dress. Salle went on silently, a rather contented expression spread across his face as he shuffled through the tall green grass. Florence tried her hardest to keep up, tripping on her dress and avoiding brambles and she caught up to him, gasping.

"Wh-where are we g-g-going?" She panted out after several minutes of him nearly running through the brush of the estate. Salle had stopped, and smiled at her.

"My writing spot." Just around a very thick bushel of trees sat a small gaps in the brambles, a little hovel supported by some old planks. Three pencils stuck out of the ground, and a tin box sat in the corner. While it wasn't very big or pretty, Salle sat proudly in it like it was a throne.

"Would you like to write with me?" He inquired suddenly holding out some paper from the tin and a pencil.

"W-w-what would I wri-write?" Florence asked, unsure of herself as she sat down delicately on a pile of pine needles, gingerly taking the pencil and paper. Salle shrugged.

"I usually write stories. Sometimes I write about the orphaage. Or people. Sometimes I draw." Florence considered this, and then decided drawing would be best. Salle had started writing off of a paper that already had thin, short lines of his neat scrawl across it.

It was one of the more lax, peaceful times at the orphanage, when the tests were more spaced out, and they had taken to fixing up the old building. As of now, A was supposed to be helping Roger paint the walls of the foyer a deep, lovely red, but he had found himself wishing that he was outside with the other children, talking to them or not.

In the orphanage, there was always the sharp, stifling presence of the responsibility for the title of L hanging above their heads, not to mention B and Roger constantly pacing the halls, B like a volatile tiger, and Roger like a nitpicky vulture, though he tended to be in his room more often than not.

Victor had screamed for Roger from the porch, convinced he had broken his arm, and Roger sighed and went to go see what the hell the kid wanted. A took that opportunity to quickly but quietly scamper off back to his room, where thankfully, B wasn't.

Hurridly, he took out his small stacks of magazines and books from under his dresser, and tossed them up to the top bunk. Whilst B kept the room clean for the most part, it didn't mean A particularily liked having him as a roomate.

Violence and hatred aside, B kept his little 'collectibles' under his bed, and some how the animal bones found their way into little cracks in the floorboards, or got kicked under the dresser where A kept his things. Needless to say, A didn't appreciate that too terribly much, and kept a small broom handy in the corner of their closet.

The majority of the newest students had come from France or America. A himself had grown up in Austria, and never did quite get used to the change of pace at Wammy's, where everything was quite demanding and time oriented. Their skills were tested in the slightest of way, psychological evaluations through strangely placed questions in quizzes.

At first it was unnerving having all of these queries of Justice and Judgement thrown at him, but A got more or less used to it and kept up anxiously with the other students.

B, however despised these moral tests and almost never gave a serious answer.

"An elderly woman is left on the streets in nothing but her night gown. A baby is left on the streets bundled up. Who do you save?"

"Christ, Roger. I'd leave em both and save myself. Speaking of saving myself, can i go now?"

In this aspect, B and Victor were very alike. In that, they learned not to utterly hate each other. But that certainly didn't mean they liked each other. Often A would find the two tangled up on the couch, clinging to each other as if that would stave off the blasting AC as they watched Rachel Ray do wonders with a knife and a watermelon. And seeing as that was the only couch not spilled, vomited, or had anything else spilled on, he took his chances with going outside.

He immediately regretted it.

It wss muggy, and mosquitoes swarmed around his bare calves as if he was the only red-blooded, breathing creature on Earth. He swatted and smacked, leaving smears of blood and bug guts on his hands. He fought the urge to gag, and made his way to the water pump, where he found Fahra filling up... Water balloons? That couldn't be good. He held up his red and brown hands and she made way, tying up a bulging, pink balloon.

"What'd, you find one of them mosquito nests?" She squinted at him through her foggy, round glasses. He shrugged, muttering something about being eaten alive. Once he was done, she started filling up more water balloons. Seeing as she didn't seem very keen on distractions from her somber task, he moved along, nearly tripping over a dirty , brown-blue kiddie pool. He cursed as he held his stubbed toe. Then, an idea came to him. Slowly, a grin overtook his sweaty, pale features. Andy C. Moore had a plan. A damn good one at that.

Meanwhile, inside, B and Victor were watching a shakespearean rendition of 'The Labrynth.' The Goblin King was still in his puffy white shirt and leather vest, but everything seemed less '80s fantasia' and more 1500s boring. 'He's still kinda hot.' Victor reasoned, hands running through B's tangled hair as a scowl settled on the other's pasty face. Ecouraged by B's displeasure at his hands in his hair, Victor continued, rambling about how no one could stand up to Bowie's job on Jareth.

B considered shaving himself bald. Getting tired of his ridiculously long hobo-esque hair (which was hell in Winchester's blazing summers), he had earlier hacked a good 5-7 inches off, leaving him with a short, fluffy cut. Victor had nearly cried in... sadness? Joy? B didn't know. Nor did he care. All that mattered was that it was summer.

Summer meant relaxtion, no more ugly tests, just him, the almost broken but still asting AC, Victor, and the library. Well, there was A too, but he didn't care to think about the whiny little shit. He had about 5-6 years left now that they were eleven, and B wondered idly how it would happen. Sometimes he even entertained dark thoughts of being with him on that day. Maybe even speeding along the process.

Unless he just happened to choke on some yorkshire pudding, which would be flat out boring and disappointing.


	3. here we are, alone again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> imlazy
> 
> grades are explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> giess whos back sluts
> 
>  
> 
> I.M SO HPPY. IM BACK. AND SO IS MY MUSE. AND WHO NEEDS GOOD SPELLING OR PUNCTUATUON

August flew by and so did the moist, hot weather. Days spent lounging on the porch, lazily applying sunscreen transitioned to sweaters, enormous mugs of chai tea, leaves turning from green to yellow to red to brown and more time spent indoors than anywhere else. It was a time to explore the innards of the old, castle-like mansion, and eat pumpkin and carrot soup, but it was also a time to build treeforts, make leaf piles, jump in said leaf piles, and dress up scarecrows found in the woods behind wammy's. It felt more and more like a family each day.

Until of course the start of tests again.

With the tests came anxiety, bitten nails, tense silence interrupted by dark jokes from Victor.

It wasn't pretty. 

Eventually, September 3rd rolled around and all went to shit. 3 new kids arrived, looking just as listless and dejected as the others had when they first came. They were Linda, Lindsey, and Brian. Linda was a short, somewhat pudgy girl who shifted often, eyes darting about as if looking for escape routes. Lindsey was almost the polar opposite. She was tall, muscular, and had dark, narrow features. She stared at one thing and one thing alone. Roger, her new sworn enemy. Meanwhile, Brian, the only one who ever cried when he walked in the door, was still sniffling as he rubbed his raw, red nose. It almost matched the ginger-red of his hair. Roger only hoped he wouldn't start bawling again. He detested his life at that moment.

"Welcome to Wammy's. As you may be a little... confused and upset right now, I'm here to explain some things to you." Roger tried to sound gentle, but it came out snobbishly and condescendingly. This made Lindsey hate him further.

"You are going to be evaluated and tested accordingly, and then... Given Ranks." He looked uncomfortable when he said this, clearing his throat unessacarily. Lindsey shot up her hand, ready to pounce. Roger sighed, then nodded to her.

"Why do we need ranks?" She asked, glaring intently at him.

"As i was going to explain before you raised your hand, You aren't here for no reason. You... Er, are successors. To L, the world's greatest detective." He recited it as if he had done this a thousand times. He hadn't. He had done it twice. The newcomers just stared at him.

G and Florence were right outside the door, Florence with an ear pressed to a glass pressed to the door. G was there because, well... She was there, and Florence was there out of pure fear. Everyone was either sulking in their rooms or staring blankly at a wall or the muted TV.

"You will be ranked between 1 and 8, 1 being the closest to being L, 8 being... Er, not close. Class one is for L's direct successors and consists, currently, of two children. If L retires or dies, one of these successors immediately take his place. Class two is for the secondary successors, those in training to become next in line to be L. You cannot be placed in either of these classes immediately. You can only be placed in 3-8 and then you may work your way up. They require trust and discipline.

"Class 3 is for those with the highest functioning capabilities and the best intellect and reasoning skills. Class 4 Is for those such children that don't function socially as well, or had disorders such as ADHD, or anger issuse. Of course, exceptions may be made if a student excels greatly."

Roger went on in this manner, thoroughly boring Florence and the newbies, until he gave them their tests. However, this piece of news about the grades was, well, new to Florence. She didn't even know her own class! She decided that couldn't be good. What if she was a class 6, or worse, a class 8?! Determined to put her mind at ease, she took the opportunity to sneak into Roger's office. 

Victor was there, along with B and Salle. Apparently, Victor had found Roger's wine stash and told B, and Salle just followed them because he was bored. Salle was the only one not holding a bottle. Victor and him looked up as Florence entered the room, B still stared hard into his half-empty bottle.

"Didn't thinka ya as a drinker, Flori." Victor mumbled, slurring his words slightly. She shook her head, words falling in pieces from her lips.

"The new p-people, Ro-Roger told them about c-classes. We have classes. R-ranks. All of us." B looked sharply at her and Victor coudn't seem to comprehend this newfound knowledge.

She stepped over their legs, heading towards Roger's file cabinet. She opened the top drawer. Nothing. She tried the next one. Locked. It had to be it. She got to searching his desk, and then, with a hesitant grimace, she pulled out the key. Salle rose his eyebrows. Victor stared. B had passed out, having finished the enormous bottle of wine.

"Y-you don't have to l-look if you don't want to." She nearly whispered, stepping gracefully to the cabinet. She opened it. In it were dozens of files, and she scanned them all quicky. She found hers, and then sat down next to Salle, and then Victor slowly got up and shakily plucked his out. B had been sprawled across his lap, so when he got up, B was jerked awake. He squinted, ready to snap at Gictor until he saw what was going on.

"I didn't think they would go through with the severity of the rankings." He said quietly. At that moment, Deanna walked in. She took one look, and immediately strode over to the cabinet, snatching her file.

DANYA LIOSE: 3.  
VICTOR CREE: 2.  
FLEUR CADIN: 5.

They all sat in silence.

Wammy walked in. Nobody looked away from their files. Wammy sighed, his eyebrows drawn in pity. He didn't have the heart to scold them for going into Roger's office, stealing, or drinking. He put the scolding on his mental make roger do this list. He left.

That night, no one wanted to talk or play, much less let the new recruits-- kids-- see them. And so, Lindsey, Linda, and Brian all spent their first night in this haunting, old orphanage truly alone.

 

_____________________________________________________


	4. Maybe it's home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so um. l appears. we explore the kids some more. my babies start to grow up. L is 11, B and Victor are 12 and 11n G is now 9-- yay! happy b day ma gurl-- And i forget the rest. jesus im a shitty parent. they be growin yo
> 
> coMment pLEASE comments are my lIFEBLOOD.
> 
> *ahem*  
> so anywhays here u go frens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. im still alive. wow. impressive. Also i made some erotic gay fanfic u should go check out. So. uh do that
> 
> u  
> happy readings?

Brian sat in his room, alone once more. His room only had one bed, so he din't get a roommate. He wasn't sure if he wanted one either. He had managed to stop crying when somone tapped on his door. He stared warily.

The knocking persisted.

Sighing, Brian stood up and opened the door, having to look down to see his visitor-- Linda? Lindsey? It was the short red head. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"I made crack." She shoved a paper-covered dish at him. "You seem like you need some." Brian's jaw dropped, his head spinning.

"Uh, no, I mean, I--" She waved and walked away. Brian stared incredulously. He looked in the dish. It was some kind of dessert. He shook his head, and went to go find a fork.

__________________________________________

Lindsey was glaring at someone again, and this time, it was finally someone who wasn't at least 20 years older than her. Sadly, it was someone who probably was even more intelligent than said old people, and --she hated admitting this to herself-- her.

"Victor, I've told you three times, and I'll tell you once more before I kick your ass. I. Don't. Know. Where. The. Fucking. Remote. Is." She had her hands on her hips and her steely grey eyes stayed fixed on Victor, who was currently staring back. 

"Then who the shit has it?" He snapped back. At that moment, Salle walked in.

"I do."

_____________________________________

Five successful evasion attempts later, Salle sat comfortably on the orange sofa (the best one.) watching music video critiques. Victor wondered how the hell that was even a thing as he held a blue ice pack to his jaw. That fucker was tough. Even so, Victor was devising a revenge scheme.

Which was kind of a bad idea, considering Salle had fucking karate chopped him on the jaw when he got close to him. So here he was, watching three middle-aged women wonder about David Bowie's personal life, how discmans revolutionized the act of listening to music, and the dangers of slap bracelets. 

Marvelous.

At that moment, B walked in, immediately walking over to Victor and smacking him up the head, making him yell and clutch his ear.

"What the actual FUCK, B?" He snapped, his face contorting into disbelief as B wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"You're an idiot, Victor. And weak." He pulled away to ruffle Victor's fluffy brown hair, cocking a brow and smirking. "But you're a cute idiot. C'mon, let's go cuddle in your room. A's been a shithead in mine, so let's go." The pair walked off, arms slung over each other's shoulders as Victor grumbled and B smiled, nodding lazily. Lindsey sighed, and went back to trying to figure out Fahra's gameboy. It was strangled, uncomfortable, and they fought a lot, but it was a sort of home.

She hated it.

It was why she despised orphanages and foster homes. They lulled you into a false sense of security and then it got ripped away from you through a transfer or shutdown of orphanages. Thse people couldn't make up their goddamn minds.

For instance, in one foster home, she was happily settled until the father found out she was a lesbian. One black eye and a CPS call later, she was back on her way to another home.  
Home sweet home, huh?

___________________________________

G sat in her room, staring comfortably at the neat, wrapped gift box that sat in her and Florence's room. Florence was probably off exploring the mansion or helping Fahra and Salle plant seeds and look for the pumpkin patch that supposedy hid in the woods behind the orphanage.

A voice from the doorway startled her, and she stared intensely at the speaker.  
"You can open it. I don't mind. It is your birthday after all..." She squinted at him. He looked like B, but he wasn't. He was something else entirely.

He was an angel.

"I'm L." He said, stepping slowly closer, as if she was a scare animal. This revelation didn't seem to bother or surprise her, she just stare at him, and then the box, and then him, then back at the box. Slowly, she picked it up and began carefully unwrapping it. Inside of the wrapping was a box. She frowned.

"You could open it." L suggested, not seeming to care if she did or didn't. She did anyways. Inside, was the most beautiful, vintage boom box radio. It could play tapes and had AM and FM. This was the closest G's face had ever gotten to sheer glee and curiousity ever since she came to Wammy's. Nimble, brown fingers found the dials and twisted them and turned them until hard rock was blasting through the speakers. For the first time in a very, very long time, she looked at L and grinned.

"Thank you."

L smiled back, and nodded back, before slipping out the still ajar door, shutting it quietly and blocking out the noise. He shuffled down the hall, his hands stuck in his jean's pockets, the remains of a smile still gracing his lips. Which is when he stumbled straight into Roger. The elder man breathed in sharply, then steadyed them both with a pair of hands on L's shoulders.

He smiled. It was obviously fake. L didn't smile back. Instead he stared at him.

"L! Just who I needed to see. We need to talk." Great. A chat with Roger. Just what he needed. "Come." When Roger's back turned, L's vaguely disinterested expression turned to a slow-forming scowl as he followed the shorter man. It wasn't Roger. Roger was okay, he just needed to be put in his place sometimes. It was the words "We need to have a talk." Which L detested so much. It could never be good, even with that awkward smile on Roger's face (Which, if L was being honest, looked more like a grimace.)

Once they were settled in Roger's office, which smelled like cigars and Febreeze, Roger pursed his lips and folded his hands together. That was always a bad sign.

"We're expanding." Well shit.

L rose a brow, staring at him. Roger stared back, then realized he had to elaborate.

"Not the actual building. In Personnel. Staff, teachers and counsellors, that sort of thing. Now, it may seem rather difficult, what with our little... Er, predicament, but me and Quillsh have strings we can pull with some friends."

L frowned. It was an evil, but still a nessacary one. "Deneuve and Coil?" He ventured.

"Eh-er, perhaps." Roger shrugged.

L didn't like the hesitation in Roger's voice, but he nodded slowly.

"There's just one problem."

 

_________________________________

"You self serving, cold-blooded, selfish, anoyying prick! NO."

The voice crackled from L's speakers as he chewed on his thumbnai thoughtfully, vaguely and passively listening, barely noticing the insults being hurled at him and the constant refusal to do the simple task L had proposed. He didn't blame him, to take care of over a dozen children daily was not a chore he wanted.

"I'M NOT A GODDAMNED BABY SIT--"

"Eraldo, the pay will be tripled and monthly instead of yearly. You get three weeks sick and vacation leave."

The blond man on the screen went silent, screwing up his mouth and squinting at him.

"You're serious."

"As cancer." L replied drily.

Coil ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a deep breath and the closing his eyes again.

"Fine."

_____________________________________


End file.
